


Alizarin

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Community: au_bingo, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A postscript to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/141272">Faster Than Without Water</a>: if you haven't read that, this will make no sense at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alizarin

Eames (of _course_ Eames) has draped a fancy lace tablecloth over the glass case in which Marlowe slumbers, dreaming their whole world. There's an exuberant spider-plant in an ornate brass pot on top of the tablecloth, which Eames waters when he remembers to do so. Arthur would've protested about dignity and respect, but frankly he's happier not seeing Marlowe's face.

Besides, although the crimson-upholstered settee -- the one bright point of colour in the high-domed, light-filled solar -- faces away from Marlowe's crystal coffin, Arthur's never really lost the feeling of being _watched_. Sure, Marlowe's eyes are closed, the eyeballs twitching after some private reality. It's still eerie being in the room with him, and Arthur doesn't like eerie. It's unprofessional.

He suspects that what he and Eames are up to on the settee right now is pretty unprofessional too, but it's not as though they're on a job. And he's fairly sure Cobb and Ariadne won't be turning up unannounced any time soon.

So he lets Eames strip him bare, one garment at a time, and lay him out on the soft worn velvet. Eames likes to look at Arthur naked; Arthur likes the feel of Eames' gaze on his bare skin. It's a win-win situation.

"Get on with it," he growls anyway, because he'd like to proceed to the more objectively tangible part of the process, the part where Eames gets naked too and joins Arthur on the sofa.

"That colour really does set off your skin," says Eames thoughtfully, rubbing his thumb along his own jawline and frowning a little. "You're a work of art, Arthur: I'd very much like to exhibit you."

Arthur arches his spine, stretches his arms out along the back of the settee, plays to his audience. "What'll you call me?"

"Alizarin," says Eames, with certainty.

Arthur blinks at him. "What?"

"It's the proper name for this colour," says Eames, leaning in to rest his hand on the back of the settee, right next to Arthur's bare scarred shoulder, close enough that Arthur can feel the heat of him. "This dark, slightly purplish crimson: alizarin. From the Arabic, I believe."

"Eames, your capacity for retaining and regurgitating useless information never fails to astound me."

Eames smirks. "I'm relieved you haven't tired of me yet. I like to keep you entertained. My sole purpose, in fact."

A small cool silence occurs between them, because this -- the almost-acknowledgement that it is and will be only ever the two of them, now, forever, unless (until) the dreamer wakes -- is too sharp, too truthful, to be spoken.

"You'll do," says Arthur. His voice is rougher than he'd like. "Though you'd do better if you _did_ something, instead of standing there admiring the scenery."

"The scenery's exceptionally admirable," says Eames, and finally, _finally_ , he's thumbing open the buttons of his shirt, exposing skin and ink and scars of his own. Arthur stares, not because the sight's a novel one but because frankly he's a lot more impressed, a lot more aroused, by Eames' physique than can possibly be good for him. The spark in Eames' gaze, the twist of his smile, the way he narrows his eyes and licks his lips like a porn star, tells Arthur that Eames knows exactly what effect he's having, and relishes it, and would like to elicit it as often as possible.

Eames lets his shirt fall, not even looking to see where it ends up. (Not that it matters, not that anything turns up in the place it was left. There are beds where they sleep, and dressing-rooms with wardrobes full of clothes, and even restaurants where they dine on gourmet cuisine or greasy burgers. None of these can be found a second time. It's freeing, to lose everything at each moment. Everything except one another.) Eames doesn't take his eyes from Arthur as he strips off his pants -- he's not wearing underwear, or even socks -- and sinks to his knees on the marble floor in front of the settee.

"Arthur," he says softly, and that, _that_ timbre, that softening gaze, the almost wistful cast of his smile: that's home, or all that remains of it; that's life, or all that's left. (Lately, Arthur's noticed, his _tristesse_ has been pre-, instead of post-, coital. He's found himself especially prone to this quiet despair in the slow, elastic moments between Eames' gaze and his touch.)

But Eames is bending forward, taking Arthur's dick in his hand, licking lazy-slow along the length of it and over his own palm. The tip of his tongue pushes vigorously at Arthur's slit, and his lips are pursed tight around the crown: Eames' spit-wetted hand is wrapped around his shaft, quick and rough, smearing saliva and precome up the length of it. Arthur bows his head 'til his chin's on his chest, so he can see every flicker of emotion in Eames' eyes, see the sweat on his upper lip and the way the calm pale light gleams on his long lashes.

Eames' mouth has the mystic power of annihilating all and any melancholy sentiments: Eames' mouth could raise the dead, thinks Arthur, and now, _now_ the thought makes him laugh breathlessly and clutch at Eames' head, not pulling, just holding: hello, I'm here, you're here, we didn't die alone.

-end-


End file.
